Threads
by muhnemma
Summary: Oneshots about various characters from Tortall. Focusing mainly although not exclusively on couples. Seventh chapter: Lord Wyldon faces some uncomfortable questions.
1. Watching You

**Note**: This is my first attempt to write a Tamora Pierce fic that doesn't revolve around Daine and Numair. They'll still be in here because I adore them and I can't help myself. Oneshots about various Tortallan characters, but focuses particularly on couples. I'd appreciate feedback on this chapter particularly because I love Alanna and George as a couple, but I've never attempted to write them before.

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**Watching You **

**Principal Characters:** George and Alanna.  
**Summary:** The night after Alanna accepts George's proposal.

George stared down at the sleeping woman beside him: Sir Alanna of Trebond and Olau, more commonly referred to in awed or bitter voices at 'the Lioness'. It mattered little whether she was revered or hated; her deeds had become legend and her name would be spoken in songs and tales for centuries to come. At the age of ten she had disguised her true sex to undergo a knight's harsh training, during which time she saved the life of a prince and had, through her own sweat and blood, earned herself a reputation as one of the realm's most gifted pages.

Four years later, she followed her prince into the desert where they defeated an ancient and seemingly invincible evil. After she earned her shield at age eighteen, she battled and killed Duke Roger of Conte, who planned to murder her monarchs and take the throne for himself. This had not been the end of her troubles. Upon returning from obtaining the Dominion Jewel she discovered that her twin brother, to prove himself the greatest sorcerer in the Eastern Lands, had raised Roger from the dead.

The Duke had almost torn the land apart. While Jon held Tortall together with battle raging around him, Alanna had hunted down Roger and returned him to his grave - this time permanently. The battle had not been without casualties: Thom, Alanna's twin, Faithful, the familiar of the Goddess, and the Shang Dragon, Alanna's former lover. Consumed by grief, she rode into the desert to the Bazhir tribe who had adopted her.

Alanna was many things to many people. To Myles she was a daughter, and Coram loved her as a father. She was Jonathan's Champion, and once he had seen her as his Queen. To the Bazhir she was The Woman Who Rides Like A Man. There were those who despised her; there always would be. But there were also little girls across the country who brandished sticks and played at being the Lioness.

To George she was Alanna, his darlin' girl as well as his comrade. She was the woman he had waited years for; the woman he would have waited many more years for had she rejected his proposal as she had rejected Jonathan's. George's fated had been sealed with their first kiss; there was no one else he could imagine settling down with and turning respectable for, no one else he could love so completely.

There was much to learn since the last time they had lain together. As well as honour and a powerful artifact, she had also gained new scars. George allowed his hand to drift from the ember stone that he had been toying with to the scar that ran between Alanna's breasts. He traced the toughened line of skin, frowning. Although he tried not to voice it (because he knew nothing he could say would make her stop adventuring), he worried desperately about Alanna when she rode into danger. Of all her scars, this one worried him the most: it was far too close to her heart for comfort. A small, unconscious part of his mind that was afraid of what the answer might be stopped him from asking how she had received it.

Although normally alert, tonight Alanna didn't stir beneath his gentle caresses. The dark circles he had noticed under her eyes upon his arrival attested to many sleepless nights. Perhaps she slept soundly because he was at her side. Or perhaps, George thought with a wry smile, he was just flattering himself.

"You won't sleep if you don't try," Alanna murmured without opening her eyes.

George grinned. He had been too preoccupied with worrying about her scars to notice the change in her deep, even breathing. "I thought you were sleepin'"

"You might have light fingers, George Cooper, but I can _feel_ you staring." She propped herself up on one elbow and blinked sleepily at him. "Is something wrong?"

"I was just wonderin'," he said slowly, "are you sure you want to go back tomorrow?" He was referring to their return to Corus which they planned to begin the following morning. Although George had accepted that Alanna truly didn't regret passing up the opportunity to become queen, she had other reasons to be apprehensive. Returning to the capital meant returning to the pain she had tried to escape by coming to the desert. The city still buzzed with talk of Roger's demise and Thom's hand in the chaos at the coronation; how would she cope with hearing her twin's name on everyone's lips?

"It's time," she said firmly. George surveyed her closely; there was something close to fear in her eyes, but the obstinate set of her jaw told him that she was serious. "Besides," she continued, "we have three weddings to attend and one of our own to plan."

The word 'wedding' brought something that had been nagging at George to the fore of his mind. A small part of him, the part that had wondered how he could compete with princes and Shang Dragons, couldn't quite understand why Alanna had chosen to marry him. "Why me, lass? he asked.

She seemed to understand what he was talking about. "I love you," she said simply. "And you love me."

"Jon loved you," he pointed out softly.

"Not all of me. What he said when I refused him came from spite and anger, but there was some truth in it. He would have expected me to act differently, to compromise when I wouldn't have thought it right. And before you ask, I knew what I had with Liam would never last. He was scared of a part of me."

"When it comes to you, I like to think a small amount of fear is healthy," said George with a devilish smile.

Alanna grinned wolfishly. "Having second thoughts about trying to tame a Lioness?"

"Never," George said, kissing her firmly. "Hush now, we have an early rise in the mornin' and I know how you get without your sleep."

"Well I'm awake now," Alanna said, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

George chuckled. "And I suppose you'll be needin' somethin' to occupy your time?"

"And as my devoted fiance..."

"... I should be the one to fill your idle hours," he finished, pulling her towards him to kiss her smiling mouth.


	2. Missing

**Note: **Thank you for the feedback I received for the first chapter. I hope everyone likes this one as much, although there's a distinct lack of fluff. A couple chapter will be coming up next. If anyone has any requests then I'd be more than happy to give them a go.

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**Missing**

**Principal characters: **Alanna.

**Summary: **Over a year after his death, Alanna visits Thom's grave. Short and angst filled.

The journey to Trebond was uneventful but distressing nonetheless. In every village they passed Alanna and George saw signs of the destruction wrought in the previous year's earthquakes and the famine caused by Jon's use of the Dominion Jewel. They shunned inns for camps off the road, finding it almost impossible to stomach the food served to them by innkeepers when villagers starved on their doorstep. It was a relief to discover that Coram hadn't sugar coated his letters to Alanna, although she knew that should have known better than to suspect him of it. Trebond truly hadn't been hit as hard as other fiefs, and food stores were sustaining their people.

Coram and Rispah were as high spirited as ever, living up to their reputation as love sick newlyweds. Alanna couldn't help but laugh; she behaved in much the same way with George at home, but their long journey and arrival at Trebond had left a hard knot of anxiety in her stomach that prevented playfulness. She hadn't told George of the real reason for their trip, but she suspected that she didn't have to. Sometimes she believed that he knew her own mind better than she did.

Predictably, the moment she lay down in bed she knew that she wouldn't be able to sleep. Deciding that she wouldn't be able to rest until she'd done what she came here to do, she kicked back the blankets and rose to her feet. There was a hint of frost in the air that bit through clothes designed for summer rather than autumn, and she silently cursed herself for not donning the thick coat that was currently doing no one any good in her travelling pack.

It didn't take her very long to find the short row of graves. She knelt in front of the newest, cleanest headstone that bore no elaborate epitaph. She had been in the desert when it was carved and he'd had few friends in Corus. The only writing on her brother's grave told his name, the date of his birth and the date of his death.

"I'm married," blurted Alanna after a long moment in which she puzzled over what to say. "Not to Jon. To George. You approved of him, didn't you?" She bit her lip to hide a smile. "Although it wouldn't have mattered if you hadn't. In a year or so I'll even be carrying a child – I wager that's something you thought you would never hear me say."

Alanna paused, her smile fading. "I'm furious with you," she whispered, and her voice did indeed seethe with anger. "I'm going to have a _child_, Thom. A little girl or boy. And you – you'll never meet them. You'll never get them into trouble or spoil them with presents. They won't know what you look like, or the sound of your voice."

She drew a deep, shaky breath. "When they find out about you – and they _will _find out about you – what am I supposed to tell them? Most people can't understand that I didn't hate you for bringing Roger back. Will my own child think me a liar when I tell them that I loved my brother until the end of his life, that I still love him now?

"I _do _love you, Thom, although sometimes... sometimes I wish that I didn't." It cost her a lot to admit this, she hadn't even _thought_ those words before, let alone spoken them, but at the same time it alleviated some of the weight that had pressed down onto her chest for the past twelve months. She continued hesitantly, "If I hated you it would be so much easier. At the moment it feels like I've lost a limb. It's like trying to live without my Gift or sword arm. I don't know when that will go away if it ever will – it hasn't eased in more than a year."

Even as she said the words, the ache that had been gnawing at her heart since Thom's death eased a little. Liam's letter had gone a long way to putting her grief for her former lover to rest, and later it seemed to her that she had always known that Faithful wouldn't stay with her forever. But she had never spoken to anyone about her brother's death, and the only time she really thought about it was when he appeared in her dreams. It was too painful to acknowledge; she feared to weep in case she never stopped.

Soft footsteps in the grass behind her. She didn't have to turn her head to know who her visit was. "Lass?" said George quietly, kneeling next to her. He pushed her hair back behind her ear and brushed away tears that she hadn't realised had collected on her cheeks. "I'm fine," she whispered. When she saw that he looked unconvinced, she attempted a shaky smile and said, "No, really I am. I think I've said everything that I needed to say."

"If you're certain. I don't mind sittin' with you if you need company."

Alanna beamed, a genuine smile. How many men would be willing to sit on cold, damp grass in front of a row of graves? "I'm certain. Now take me to bed before I fall asleep where I sit."


	3. From the Heart

I know I said that there would be a couple chapter next, but this popped into my head while I was reading Squire and I had to write it. Next chapter might be slow in coming as I have three very nasty essays due.

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**From the Heart**

**Principal characters**: Lianne of Meldon

**Summary**: Cleon's fiancée discovers some intriguing letters. I apologise if her name was mentioned somewhere in POTS and I missed it.

Lianne of Meldon knew that she was a fortunate woman. Most people didn't get to marry for love. Both common and noble marriages were usually arranged for the mutual benefit of the two families involved, although these matters tended to become more complicated when large dowries and respected, ancient names were involved. Lianne was no exception to this rule. The Goddess had barely laid her hand on Lianne and transformed her into a woman when her parents arranged her marriage, and the first time she set eyes on her betrothed was six months before their wedding.

Lianne had dreaded that first meeting, losing countless nights of sleep to feverish contemplation. What if her husband-to-be was brutish or cruel? An uncultured 'new' noble incapable of carrying a decent conversation? She knew he was a knight – had he been disfigured or scarred in one of the many skirmishes with Scanran raiders? But the Great Goddess, as she had done so many times before, heard and answered Lianne's prayers. Cleon of Kennan, with his infectious smile, easy lope and boyish red curls, was impossible not to like. Lianne had fallen in love with him the first time he took her hand in his large paw and delicately kissed her fingers.

It had taken an hour for Cleon to prove that all of Lianne's fears were unfounded. Not only was he handsome, but he spoke intelligently about every subject raised at the dining table. When he spoke to Lianne alone, his seriousness was peppered with bouts of endearing silliness that made the young woman smile in delight. To her mother's approval (and to Lianne's unspoken, unacknowledged frustration), Cleon was a gentleman in every sense of the word. Too many noblemen attempted to persuade their future brides into bed before their wedding night, but Cleon would only kiss his betrothed's hand in polite greeting. In the morning, after a night filled with dreams of Cleon's inviting lips, Lianne's traitorous mind would whisper that surely _one _kiss wouldn't damage her honour.

The wedding was to be held at her family's fief. A week before the greatly anticipated day, Cleon's family and attendants arrived, filling Lianne's home with noise and activity. She saw little of her fiancé, preoccupied as she was with last minute dress adjustments and preparation for the imminent arrival of a flood of guests. The evening before the wedding, as the sun was setting, she stole into his room (surely he would consent to a kiss when their wedding was mere hours away?), only to find it empty. A worn travelling pack lay undone at the bottom of his bed. An envelope, flaring crimson in the glow of the sunlight, thrust from the opening.

Lianne knew that she shouldn't pry, and she never would have unsealed the envelope if she hadn't noticed that it was addressed to _'My Dearest'. _Her lips blossomed into a smile at the sight of those words, dashed off in Cleon's clumsy hand. Who would have thought him capable of a love letter? Perhaps that's where all his passion went, instead of into kissing!

_I will never send this letter, _it began. _It isn't fair on you, me or Lianne._

Lianne's heart seemed to freeze in her chest. Who was the intended recipient of this missive?

_I love you. I will never tell you, because to do so would be to place a burden on your shoulders when you already have so many. I cannot bear to carry the words unspoken forever, so I confess them to paper. _

The letter shook as Lianne's hands began to tremble. It seemed that the bashful, silly Cleon who respected her honour too much to hold her _was _full of passion, but not for her. Several times her eyes skimmed over the words, but they made no sense to her. Blinking back tears, she forced herself to concentrate.

_There is no other woman in the world like you. How can the woman I marry understand me as well as you do? She has never shed blood or sweat alongside me, nor known that her life could be ended in a single second of clumsiness. You are my comrade, my friend, as well as my love. I can love all of you because you know every part of me._

Lianne had thought she knew everything there was to know about Cleon. Hadn't she listened eagerly to his every word, studied the slightest change in his face to tell her what he liked and didn't?

_I like Lianne, truly I do. She is nice..._

Nice? _Nice? _What was nice compared to perfection, to a singular woman who Cleon loved every inch of?

_... But she is not you. _

Lianne of Meldon knew that she was a fortunate woman. Most people didn't get to marry for love. In less than a day she would marry a man she had fallen in love with during the first few hours of their meeting. As it was now breaking for him, in time her heart would learn to beat for him. The greatest sadness of her life would always be that the same couldn't be said for her betrothed.


	4. Gesture

I managed to abstain from Daine and Numair for three chapters. I had to give in some time.

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**Gesture**

**Principal characters: **Alanna, George, Daine and Numair.

**Summary: **Alanna discovers just how much a small gesture can reveal. Set a few weeks after RotG.

Daine was awake when Alanna reached her bedroom. She had wanted to be there before the young woman woke; a big healing of the kind Daine had had the day before could sometimes cause confusion, and Alanna worried that she might not recognise her surroundings at the Swoop. She needn't have rushed her breakfast: Numair was already there, his brow creased into a frown as he spoke softly to Daine.

"See, lass?" murmured George. "I told you she'd be fine."

Numair raised his hand in weary greeting as Alanna strode towards the bed. "Not confident in my skills?" Alanna asked, noting the dark circles beneath the mage's eyes that told her he had spent the entire night at Daine's bedside. Without waiting for an answer, she moved to inspect Daine's right hand, the fingers of which had been broken in an unfortunate accident on the beach the day before. She bent each finger experimentally, murmuring an apology when Daine winced; they were stiff, and no doubt painful, but they would heal completely within a few weeks.

"You'll be fine, young'un," Alanna said, clapping Daine lightly on the shoulder. "But in the future, please try to keep in mind that rough seas and large rocks aren't kind to small hands." Grinning sheepishly, Daine slipped from the bed and pulled on a soft pair of boots when Alanna mentioned that she had saved her some breakfast.

"Gods!" cried Daine, catching a glimpse of her reflection as she walked to the door. After hours on the beach and then almost a day and night unconscious, her hair was in a complete state of disarray. Dropping down into the chair in front of the mirror, she picked up the comb that lay nearby and attempted to tame her unruly curls. The comb clattered to the floor almost immediately after she had picked it up. Her fingers, still stiff and sore, couldn't grasp it properly.

Alanna made to retrieve the comb. Like her, Daine hated having simple tasks performed for her when she was ill or injured, but Alanna had pinned up Daine's hair so many times that she was sure the younger woman wouldn't mind. Before she could take a single step, Numair swooped down and scooped the comb from the floor. Daine made no protest as the mage began to work the comb through her tangles, much to Alanna's surprise. Numair's large hands moved slowly, his fingers deftly working out the knots.

Alanna felt as if she watched a far more intimate act than a teacher aiding an injured student in an every day task. Numair touched Daine with the gentleness of a lover, and he occasionally brushed his fingers against the base of her neck in soft strokes that made colour rise in Daine's cheeks. Once their eyes met in the mirror, and some silent communication passed between them before they looked away, smiling. Glancing at her husband, Alanna saw that George's eyebrows had crawled up his forehead and showed no sign of returning to their normal position. Clearly she wasn't the only one who had noticed something out of place.

Finally, Numair slid pins into place that would keep Daine's curls in something close to order and set the comb on the table. He offered his hand to help her from her seat, and Daine gave him her uninjured left hand. When she was on her feet, he held onto her hand for a fraction of a second longer than was normal, squeezing it gently, before he released it. Turning to the others, a small smile curving her lips, Daine asked, "Did someone mention breakfast?"


	5. The Women in My Life

This is just a quick oneshot. I really like Lalasa and got the idea for this after reading _Page_. Next chapter will be Joren in the Chamber of Ordeal.

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**The Women in My Life**

**Principal characters: **Lalasa

**Summary: **Lalasa thinks about the two main women in her life.

Lalasa didn't like men. They were too hard, made of too many sharp angles. They cultivated large muscles and hard fists that bruised her soft skin and broke her bones. Lalasa knew well that there were a hundred ways a man could shatter her frail body, and every time she passed a man too closely in a crowded corridor, a new possibility would present itself in horrifying detail before her eyes. It had been that way since her bro – a man, a _man _(even in her head she could not admit it) – had hurt her when she was a tiny girl.

Keladry was made of the same hard muscle that men were. Yet Kel didn't use it to hurt her. Years later, Lalasa would be shamed almost to tears that she had expected Kel to split her skin and make her bleed. Kel was something Lalasa had never had before: a protector. It didn't matter whether Lalasa's tormentor was a servant or a noble, Kel put herself between her servant and danger and dared the world to tell her that she was wrong. The younger woman taught her tricks to fell even the largest of men, tricks that she would later pass on to other women. Lalasa came to love Kel's sharp angles and strong limbs: they represented a strength and determination that awed her with respect rather than fear.

Tiane was a different matter entirely. There was nothing hard about her; she was all softness and curves. The first time they had kissed, a sweet hotness had exploded somewhere within Lalasa, and she realised that this must be what the other servants felt with their men friends. Lalasa had never expected to feel it. For years the subtle scent of Tiane's perfume would transport her back to that first night, bringing a tingling heat to her cheeks. Lalasa was looking forward to a lifetime of exploring this exhilarating, almost holy, feeling in the soft curves and slopes of Tiane's body.

Two women, on the surface as opposite as it was possible to be, yet both so strong. Each had helped to build Lalasa into a person she could be proud of, and each would own a part of her forever.


	6. Shatter

**Shatter**

**Principal characters: **Joren.

**Summary: **Joren faces his Ordeal.

Joren was one of the few squires to walk into the Chamber of Ordeal with a swagger. Why shouldn't he be confident? Stone Mountain was amongst the oldest families in the kingdom, and they had been producing the finest knights for centuries. Not once in the many generations had a Stone Mountain man failed his Ordeal. And Joren was going to be the best of them. Hadn't Lord Wyldon told his father that he was the most promising, the most talented squire the training master had ever seen?

When the door of the Chamber shut behind him, Joren was plunged into complete darkness. Throughout his night long vigil he had been confident, almost arrogantly so, but now he began to feel the first pricklings of fear at the nape of his neck. The resounding clang of the door closing seemed to echo through the Chamber for an eternity; just how big was this room? From the outside it seemed to occupy such a small amount of space, but now it seemed as if he was standing in the centre of a vast, primeval cave. There was no going backwards and no telling what he would meet if he ventured forth.

There was never enough time for Joren. Hours, days, years seemed to escape him like grains of sand running between his fingers. It was the same for every page and squire, of course. Days and nights were given over to training and lessons, and on some days it seemed like there was barely time to blink between waking and sleeping. Now, perversely, time had slowed to an agonising crawl. It occurred to him that while he was a man, and his days walking the face of the earth were limited, the Chamber had been here long before he was born and would be here long after his death. It was both ageless and ancient. Could it decide to keep him here until his mortal weaknesses claimed him? He closed his eyes, willing something, _anything_, to happen.

_Now we shall see, _a voice inside his head whispered. It was as cold as the frozen earth in winter, and just as hard. _We shall see just how far you can bend. _

The next time Joren opened his eyes it was to dazzling sunlight. Instead of hard stone slabs, his bare feet stood on warm grass that seemed to glow in the afternoon sun. He could hear the crashing of waves on rocks, and when he turned he found he stood near a cliff that looked out onto an endless, azure sea. It would have been idyllic if not for the sound of voices raised in anger, the unmistakeable clank of armour and the soft hisses of swords being unsheathed. Running towards him was a group of ten heavily armed bandits. He felt a sudden pressure, and glanced down to find that he carried a sword in each hand.

Fighting away the almost irresistible urge to panic, Joren forced himself to concentrate. He was outnumbered, that was true, but this ragtag group of cut-throats hadn't had the benefit of eight years of training, four of them under one of the greatest knights Tortall had ever seen. He wasn't arrogant enough to think that he would come out of this without injury, but strength and skill would see him through alive.

"Give me one of your swords!" A voice at his side ordered. Startled, he risked taking his eyes off the bandits to glance sideways. Keladry of Mindelan – The Girl – The _Lump _– stood nearby, one hand stretched towards him to receive a weapon. He barely had time to wonder how she had crept up on him unheard when she said, "I can help you, but I need a weapon."

Joren opened his mouth to inform her that he didn't need any help of her providing, then clamped his jaws together, remembering just in time that he wasn't supposed to utter a sound during his Ordeal. _You won't trick me that easily, wench, _he thought viciously, tightening his grip on the swords. "Joren!" she cried, seeing that he had no intention of relinquishing one of the blades. _"Let me help you!" _

Ignoring her, he prepared himself for the onslaught. The bandits fell on him like a pack of wild dogs. As he had thought, they were strong but unskilled and sloppy. Many of them he dispatched quickly, thrusting his sword beneath their weak defences to plunge the blade into their chests. Throughout the fight he could hear Keladry screaming at him, losing all trace of her former Yamani calm as she pleaded with him to let her come to his aid. _Never, _he thought grimly. _If there were a hundred bandits, if there were a thousand, I would not need your help. _

Finally, Joren faced only one opponent. The fight had pushed them back to the cliff edge, and Joren was wary of his footing as he wove and ducked the bandit's strikes. He watched patiently, waiting for the much larger man to tire and become lax. Finally he saw an opening. He darted in and slashed the bandit's throat with the razor sharp tip of his sword. For a brief, fatal moment Joren allowed himself to relax. Then the dying bandit toppled, spurting blood from the gash in his neck, onto him. The squire quickly pushed him away, sending him soaring from the cliff, but the damage was already done. Joren lost his balance and slipped from the edge.

His hand darted up to grip the earth and grass. His other hand, slippery with the blood of his enemies, couldn't find purchase. The entire weight of his body rested on one hand. The muscles in his arm screamed their protest, and he pressed his lips together tightly to prevent even the tiniest murmur of pain from escaping them. A shadow fell over him. Keladry, her face once again blank, knelt next to his hand, a pale spider in the emerald grass. She offered him her own scarred, unfeminine hand. "I'll pull you up," she said softly. "_Let me help you._"

_No! _his mind bellowed. _Never! Never, never, never! _"Let me help you," she said again. She repeated it again, then again until it became an endless litany that seemed to make the blood pound in his ears. Finally, a realisation. She would never desist, never understand that he wouldn't accept her help. He would have to tell her. Forgetting the rules (as he so often did when it came to Keladry), he opened his mouth and roared, "No!" At the same moment his fingers lost their grasp on the grass. His final protest echoed around the Chamber as he plummeted towards the rocks below.


	7. Hero

**Hero**

**Principal characters: **Lord Wyldon of Cavall

**Summary: **Wyldon faces some uncomfortable truths after the Ordeals of Joren and Vinson.

Lord Wyldon of Cavall wished that people would stop calling him a hero. He didn't feel like a hero. At this moment in time he felt like a failure: he had failed to recognise that his training methods were so defective that they produced two squires who had shattered in the Chamber. He was supposed to provide the realm with fine knights who would protect the people, serve their duty to their monarchs and uphold the code of chivalry. Instead he had provided a kidnapper and a rapist.

Since the Chamber had opened on Joren's corpse Wyldon hadn't been able to stop wondering. Had there always been a seed of badness inside Joren and Vinson that his training had nurtured? Had his aggressive methods made violence second nature to them? Wyldon was faced with uncomfortable questions, questions that made his flesh crawl but which he was forced to repeatedly ask himself: how responsible was he for the raping and beating of those city girls, for the kidnapping of Keladry's maid?

Keladry. She was his biggest failure. The girl had shown as much potential as any of the boys, and had proved herself a hundred times over. She had trained for twice as long, worn twice as many weights, run twice the distance. As for the code of chivalry – no matter how many times she claimed that she had "fallen down", Wyldon knew the truth: she had fought when she was outnumbered against opponents who had more training to protest against an idea she believed to be unjust. Could Tortall ask for a better protector? And yet he had blocked her at every turn, did everything he could to force her out. Gods, he had almost denied her the right to stay at the end of her probationary year.

Wyldon was not a man who approved of self pity. He would channel his dismay, his anger at himself and the two squires, into defending his country in the coming war. Given time, he would be worthy of the title 'hero' once more. But never again would he believe himself capable of creating the next generation of heroes.


	8. Pride

**Pride**

**Principal character: **Lalasa

**Summary: **Lalasa considers different kinds of pride

Pride was an alien concept to Lalasa. For a long time she'd had nothing to be proud of and no one to be proud of her. Pride in good work was a lie told to spur servants and labourers to work faster, harder, longer. Although she completed her tasks to the best of her abilities it wasn't out of some strange notion of pride, but to avoid yet another punishment.

Then she had come to Kel's service. Lalasa would never forget the first time she had thrown her mistress into a door, and Kel had not dismissed her but told her that she was proud. _Proud. _At first she had tried to deny it, but there was no denying the pleasure and approval in her mistress's eyes. The notion of pride, once so abstract, shivered into reality. Throughout her childhood and adolescence her mother and father had constantly been angry with her, and with that anger came pinches and blows. Kel's pride in her drove Lalasa to learn how to fight and then to use her skills when she was in danger.

There was a pride that Lalasa had known since girlhood and had pushed aside, knowing that she should concentrate on her work. This was the pride that came with the needle and thread, of getting every stitch just right. The pride of holding something that she alone had created, and that she had worked on until her eyes itched and her back ached. In Kel's service Lalasa had not only been allowed to create her own small pieces of beauty, but encouraged: the joy of silk, wool and cotton was hers once more.

Now, looking around at the women who sat with her, Lalasa knew what it was to feel pride in a student. Here they were free to talk and laugh as they pleased. They passed bowls of food between each other as they chatted, doling such treats as salted pork and potatoes slathered in butter onto plates. They didn't normally eat such rich food: honey sweetened porridge was the best they could normally hope for. But towards the end of each month they worked any extra hours they could get to afford this feast. It was their payment to Lalasa for the lessons she gave them, for the defensive throws and pinches she taught them. They knew that she would never accept their coin but they wouldn't allow her to go unrewarded.

Directly opposite Lalasa sat Elsie, a young woman whose five-year-old daughter had successfully stolen the heart of every woman in the room. It was for the sake of the child that Elsie visited Lalasa: her husband had satisfied himself with beating Elsie for a long time, but one day turned on the little girl and broke her arm. The beast had been brought to justice by the court of the Goddess, and Elsie had sworn never to let anyone harm her daughter again.

Further around the circle sat four women who all worked at the same tavern. This particular establishment had a reputation for being rough, and more than once they had been grabbed by a customer who had had one too many to drink. Since coming to Lalasa they had been able to eject anyone who caused them trouble.

To Lalasa's right Tian gossiped with Lily and Anne, two former prostitutes. Lily was a young woman who had come to the city to make a better life for herself and had found only degradation. Anne's husband had lost his job, leaving her to support them and their four children. Lalasa had almost turned them away the first time they attended one of her lessons, but in her mind a pair of hazel eyes had gazed at her levelly. Would Kel have refused to teach these women how to defend themselves?

Lalasa had always known the pride in creation, and Kel had taught her what it was to have another feel pride in her. Now – through pride of her students – Lalasa was beginning to learn what it was like to feel proud of herself.


	9. Daughters

**Daughters**

**Principal characters: **Numair, George, Neal, Sarralyn, Aly and Georgiana

**Summary: **Letters from father to daughter.

**Numair**

Sarralyn,

As I write this you are sleeping peacefully. A candle mark ago you were a wolf, and taking great pleasure in ripping our furniture to pieces. I do not know what other shapes you will take in your life, nor how much of our home you will destroy in the process of learning how to control your magic. I do not know and neither do I care. I cannot predict the arguments we will have in the future, the raised voices or the angry tears. But I can say with utter certainty that twenty years from now, fifty, one hundred, I will love you.

All my love,

Your father.

Over the years, every time Sarra got in trouble for breaking the boundaries her parents had set for her in terms of shape shifting, she would retrieve the letter from its place hidden in a book and re-read it, smiling through her tears.

**George**

1, 12, 25

3, 15, 14, 7, 18, 1, 20, 21, 12, 1, 20, 9, 15, 14, 19/ 15, 14/ 3, 18, 1, 3, 11, 9, 14, 7/ 25, 15, 21, 18/ 6, 9, 18, 19, 20/ 3, 15, 4, 5/ 25, 15, 21/ 8, 1, 22, 5/ 13, 1, 4, 5/ 1, 14/ 15, 12, 4/ 18, 15, 7, 21, 24

12, 15, 22, 5/ 4, 1

As Dove's Spymaster, Aly kept the first code she ever broke folded up in a secret pocket, along with the yellowed translation written in a scrawled, childish hand:

ALY,

CONGRATULATIONS ON CRACKING YOUR FIRST CODE. YOU HAVE MADE AN OLD ROGUE VERY PROUD.

LOVE DA.

**Neal**

Many sleepless nights

Made far more bearable by

Baby's beaming smile

Years later, Georgiana fixed the haiku above her own daughter's cradle to remind herself why she rose from bed while all sensible people were sleeping.


End file.
